Page 75 of Sunshine
His words are smooth, but his voice is rough, and I can tell he wants to lose control. He sinks in slowly, sheathing himself at a pace that begins to frustrate me too, so I grab onto his ass, yank him closer, and raise my hips to meet his.
“So fucking greedy,” he says, his voice strained and raspy as he disappears inside me.
I accept the final inch with a moan of release, enveloping him like I really was made for him, the two of us fitted together like it was always supposed to be this way. His mouth captures mine, his body is heavy and safe atop me, and for a moment, we kiss—just kiss—not a breath of distance between us, no movement to steal this moment from us. We’re as close as two people can ever be. Joined together. Committing to our memories the taste of each other. The feel of each other. The connection between our bodies. Finally.
Finally.
And then he starts to move.
It’s a slow thrust at first, starting with an easy drag out, a controlled rock of his hips as he brushes the hair from my forehead, kisses me once more, and then watches me with focused attention. He notes every expression on my face as he pulls almost all the way out, waiting for a sign that I want more. I can’t look away from his burning blue gaze, and I wonder if he’s reading all the things I can’t say.
I love you. I want you. Make me yours.
The tip of his cock grazes my entrance, and he reverses his thrust to slowly sink back inside me. My back arches off the floor, the exquisite feeling of fullness almost more than I can take as Dylan slides all the way in. He rolls his pubic bone against my clit before he curses under his breath and pulls back out. And when he’s there again, hovering temptingly at my entrance, my heart races harder because I know exactly how euphoric it is to have Dylan Davenport inside me.
In and out. In and out. Two bodies trying to know each other.
A moment I’ll remember forever.
But when the need to come builds and builds, and I can’t stand the pace anymore, I dig my fingers into his hair and pull his mouth to mine. I kiss him like this is a goodbye to what we used to be and then set my mouth to his ear.
“Fuck me, Dylan. Please.”
He drops his head and kisses me again, wild and possessive. And then he loses control.
I match the pace of his hips against mine, rocking against him as his thrusts go from deliberate to desperate. Dylan pistons in and out of me, fingers weaving into my hair as he kisses me deeply, our sweaty bodies sliding and bucking against each other as he loses that iron-hard grip. Every thrust is primal, more abandoned, until he’s fucking me like he owns me, and he does. He does. He just doesn’t know it.
“Fuck, Penelope,” he whispers against my mouth, pumping as I lift my knees to take him even deeper. “Fuck. I wasn’t expecting you. Is that the craziest thing you ever heard? I wasn’t expecting to feel like this.”
My heart jumps, and I feel it even over the insistent thrum of my racing pulse, the orgasm gathering deep in my core. “Like what?”
Dylan ruts into me, kissing me again, squeezing my breast and making me arch up against his hand, and whatever answer he has for me, if he was ever going to give it, is lost as he grinds himself against my clit, closes his hot mouth over a nipple, and I topple over the edge of my climax. Heat explodes at the base of my spine, the muscles in my stomach ache, and I clamp my thighs around Dylan’s waist, silently begging him to stay there, to ride out my orgasm with me.
With a final thrust, Dylan tenses and stills, coming deep inside me as I clench and release around his cock, milking every drop of his climax.
I wrap my arms around his neck, clinging to him with the fear this might be the one and only time we’re joined like this. He lets me, kissing me deep enough to make me wonder if he feels the same way.
We come together, there on the floor, like we were made for each other, just like he said. Just like I want to believe.
twenty-two
Poppy
Dylan and I sneakaway to the barn house twice over the next four nights. During the day, we act like nothing is different between us. At night, he texts his sisters with a story about needing to work, and I slip out before Mona gets home from the bar and meet him at our little hideaway.
But on Wednesday night, we drive out to an abandoned field to spend a couple of hours on a blanket in the back of his truck, drinking beer from the bottle, laughing about our childhoods and making out under the stars.
For the first time in my life, I’m thankful that Dylan never looked twice at me before now. If he’d noticed me at all when we were teenagers, our relationship might have felt something like it does now—euphoric, hungry, obsessive, reckless—but it wouldn’t have been like this, whatever this is, and I wouldn’t give it up for anything.
Admitting that—even to myself where nobody else can hear it—is hard, and I chase away the bittersweet flavor of my life with a deep swallow of cold lager.
Beneath my bare thighs, Dylan lays naked on his stomach on the truck bed while I straddle his hips and massage the tight spots in his shoulders. It’s too cold for me to lounge around in the nude, so although I’m still wearing my loose sweater on top, I’m completely naked underneath.
I wish I could bottle the intimacy of being together skin-to-skin without sex. It makes the nights we spend together feel less like something scandalous and more like something sacred.
Dylan moans at each dig of my fingers into the tight, hard muscles of his shoulders, and every time his chest reverberates with the satisfied rumble, my pussy gets a little wetter—and so does his bare lower back.
“That feels so good,” he mumbles as I work the knot in his trap. “Don’t stop.”
